


Contact

by HammerToFall_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-19
Updated: 2002-11-19
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:30:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HammerToFall_Archivist/pseuds/HammerToFall_Archivist
Summary: By Ros WilliamsBlake's fate immediately following Star One.





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Note from oracne, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hammer to Fall](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hammer_to_Fall), a Blake’s 7 archive, which has been offline for several years. To keep the works available for readers and scholars, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after June 2017. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Hammer to Fall collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HammerToFall/profile).
> 
> originally published in CHRONICLE #3 (multimedia; 1988)

Waking from a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep to find himself strapped into an escape capsule and hurtling towards some planet he did not recognise did not amuse Blake at all, and he was even less amused when he discovered that Orac was not with him. So Avon's finally taken our precious data-gatherer, Blake thought irritably. Of course there was a possibility that Avon needed it more, but more likely he'd thought it a good excuse to keep Orac for himself. Blake peered out of the observation window and prayed that the capsule's automatic landing gear would work properly. Orac would have been useful now, perhaps a life-saver, but Orac was not here and there was no point in fretting about it--yet.

Fortunately the landing was bearable, if bumpy, although Blake had had a few nasty moments as the capsule swept across what appeared to be a vast lake. Blake waited a few minutes to get his breath back and then, having checked that the atmosphere was breathable, cautiously opened the hatch.

Outside the air was chill and the ground hard with frost. Blake groaned, and rummaged around for the protective clothing which should be stowed under the seat. Yes, it was there, and he pulled it on thankfully, already cold from the unwelcoming draught entering the capsule through the hatch. He supposed it would be sensible to close the hatch, but the capsule was uncomfortably small; he felt like a breath of fresh air too, however cold.

The first thing to do was to try and contact Liberator. He didn't remember much of the crisis which had forced them to evacuate. He'd tried to help Avon face the Andromedans out, Avon had sarcastically but sensibly sent him back to the sick bay where he'd taken something to deaden--a little--the pain in his shoulder. There had been a grim interlude in which he'd felt Liberator buffeted again and again by energy bolts but Avon had held his ground, brave and calm as always. Blake could not see the flight deck but he could hear on the intercom every moment of the drama. He'd been afraid Avon might run, which was why he'd gone to help, but Avon stood firm. Blake wondered cynically whether it was because Avon could really be trusted--as he'd averred, heart in mouth and for the benefit of the others, that Avon could--or because Avon did not fancy a galaxy dominated by yet another force which might be even worse than the Federation. Whatever the reasons, Avon had stayed until Servalan's forces came, and then he'd moved out of the firing line. Liberator was sorely damaged, and the instruction had come to abandon ship.

"I'll stay until last," Blake had said, anxious to act as a captain should, but Avon had bundled him unceremoniously into the escape capsule, and had shoved another analgesic pill into his band at the very last, remarking that it would help him to relax.

"I've had enough pills!" Blake had retorted, but he'd taken it anyway. It had probably helped him to sleep and he supposed he'd needed the rest. But now he rather regretted it, because he had no idea where he was and the capsule's navigation equipment seemed to have been damaged: the readings were erratic.

Liberator did not answer his call either. He had no way of knowing whether the ship was merely still incapacitated, or totally destroyed. Gloomily, he switched off the radio and, wincing as his shoulder was stiff and very painful, he dragged himself out through the hatch into the open.

He'd landed within sight of the lake or whatever it was, but on highish ground, and had a good view all around him. His spirits rose as he saw, way off but too depressingly far, what appeared to be a village. He decided to walk to it and, after collecting the capsule's survival pack, set off.

He'd seen snow on the ground ahead, and had hoped to find a path or road, but if there were roads he could not find any as he plodded on. As he went downwards, the snow became deeper and he began to suspect that where he'd landed had been windswept. Now, the snow was in heavy pockets, and he stumbled frequently into drifts. He'd seen snow before, occasionally; most memorably on Avalon's planet, but there it had been hard and he'd not walked on it for long. He'd never have imagined that it would be so difficult to move. He had to take each step with care, anxious not to stumble in a dip. Several times he did, though, and fell, once narrowly avoiding a tumble into a stream which he could not see but could still hear flowing briskly beneath the white shroud of snow. Gradually he came to recognise the signs of danger--the sculpted hollows which suggested that the snow had built up into a drift, the dips that indicated a mountain stream rushing somewhere out of sight, the suspicious smoothness that hid a great mass of deep snow, or the faint mounds that covered small bushes. Once he found his foot caught, fell forward awkwardly, and realised he'd tripped over some kind of fence. At least, he thought, that indicated people came this way--sometime or another.

The day was passing quickly and he had not travelled all that far. He became anxious, realising that a night out in this cold might kill him when the Andromedans had not. There was no point now in trying to reach the village. He could only hope that he could find shelter somewhere. With luck someone might be nearby, living in some outpost of the community, and he might see a lighted window to aim for.

He was fortunate, and saw a light appear as the darkness began really to fall. Sighing with relief, he aimed for it. After a while, he paused for a few moments to reassess his route, and when he looked again, the light had vanished. The people must be using shutters, he thought, which was a pity. It meant that he might never find the place unless it was large and obvious. He might pass it by in the dark, unseen. Anxious again, he hurried on.

#

"You were lucky," Rogan said as he slapped a large mug of soup in front of Blake. "If I hadn't opened the door to let the dogs in, you'd never have found us."

"I'm very much afraid you are right," Blake agreed, tentatively testing the soup and finding it just right to drink. "I was sure the light had been further on."

"Deceptive, snow is," Rogan agreed heartily. Dangerous, too. What in Heaven's name were you doing out there at this hour?" He was too polite to remark that Blake must have been off his head to wander the snow fields at night, but it was obvious from his expression that he thought it.

Blake decided to be reasonably honest--to a point anyway. Rogan's planet had to be near the conflict and if he didn't know about it yet, he soon would. There was no need to go into detail about his own part in it. "I expect you've heard about the alien invasion," he said. "I had to bale out--my capsule's up there...." He waved his arm vaguely in roughly the right direction. "I couldn't raise anyone on the communicator--perhaps it's malfunctioning. I couldn't stay here indefinitely."

"Didn't expect the walk to take so long?" Rogan ventured. He'd seen offworlders make that mistake before in winter and regret it.

"Right...And now, I'd like to know just where I am. I'm completely lost." Blake didn't like to admit the fact. "I was also injured," he added. "I could do with attending to the wound."

Rogan was brisk and efficient and did it for him, which was a relief as Blake was exhausted. He also named the planet--Epheron, third planet of the star Loritol. Blake nodded, recalling the names when Rogan gave some more details of neighbouring systems and knowing that from here he should be able to get a ship off, assuming the war hadn't wrecked everything. Fed, warmed and comforted, Blake slept on the settle Rogan provided.

#

Next day, things didn't seen quite so easy after all. "The spaceport's been hit overnight," Rogan informed him, having heard the news through the information network while Blake was still sleeping. "Fortunately it's on the far side of the planet so we've missed the devastation, but things are in a serious way there. Travelling will be out of the question, I should think, except for the Military."

Blake could well imagine. He could imagine too the horror the people round there had suffered from some stray blast tearing into their civilisation while the Federation and its allies harried the Andromedans. "Do you know anything of the war itself?" he asked.

"Not really. Everything's very confused. I imagine you could tell us more."

That was, Blake supposed, very likely. On an impulse, he decided to trust the man, and told him all he remembered. Rogan's eyes widened with amazement as he registered Blake's reputation--the name was, after all, not unusual and he'd not connected the two at first. The chance of a famous--or infamous--rebel appearing out of the snow would surely be remote, but, if the man was telling the truth, and Rogan was inclined to believe he was, then it had happened. "Andromedans?" he said uneasily. "I don't like the sound of that. How did they get here--the distance is so vast."

"That we don't know. They must have perfected some kind of intergalactic drive. Perhaps some of their ships will be captured and someone will find out. The thing at the moment is to deter them from getting any further: the Andromedans I met were distinctly hostile." They were also, he remembered, obedient to their commanders. He had not liked the way they seemed convinced their foray into his galaxy was just...yet he supposed there were many who objected to his own cause. He wondered just why the Andromedans had come. Was it only for conquest? Very possibly he would never know. "I'd like to get back to my ship," he continued. "Is there any way I could contact your Space Agency? They might be able to help me."

"If you can get to Salen--that's the nearest town--then you could; but the journey's not easy."

"Public transport?"

"At present--nil...with the spaceport closed."

"But overland?"

Rogan grinned. "Everything's in turmoil, I hear; and round here there have been heavy snowfalls overnight. I doubt if the roads--such as they are, and they aren't good--will be open yet."

Blake remembered it had been snowing quite heavily as he reached Rogan's cottage. From what he'd seen of snow, he supposed it could have become a good deal deeper out there after a whole night of the stuff.

"We're high up here," Rogan said, "and the winter's just well set in."

"You must have ways to travel," Blake exclaimed. "Surely you don't cut yourselves off?"

"This is a rim system," Hogan replied, "far from Earth and the main centres of civilisation. Epheron is a poor planet with an agricultural society. We don't go in for the kinds of luxuries you may be used to. In winter we stay in our own villages."

"Earth isn't luxurious," Blake said, "but I suppose it's different. The people never see the Outside, just acres of concrete interspersed with the occasional regulation triangles of controlled grass and tidy flowers. It's nothing like this, nothing at all." He gazed out of the window at the snow sparkling in the sunshine. "This is beautiful," he said. "You are very fortunate."

"Perhaps. If you'd died out there last night, you'd perhaps consider Earth a better place?"

"Hardly," Blake said. "I could have died just as easily on Earth, and at the hands of Federation guards rather than the cold." He dragged his eyes away from the glittering scene. "How am I to get to the town?" he demanded.

"There's only one way if you are in a hurry," Rogan replied. "By ski."

#

Falling for the umpteenth time, Blake cursed. It was one thing to stand upright on the skis, though even that could be tricky if you relaxed even for a moment, but quite another to move about on them, especially when you had an injured shoulder and could use only one arm effectively to pole yourself along. Skiing on the flat was bearable although very slow going. Downhill was better...until you reached the bottom of the slope and then you had to pray that you did not have to turn. After only a few minutes' instruction from Rogan, Blake was not exactly capable of a turn at speed, and his occasional attempts to try when necessity forced it upon him usually met with disaster. Once he'd fallen on his injured shoulder, and had spent some minutes recovering from the shock. He was thankful that Rogan had been efficient with strapping it up and, so far as he could tell, he'd not reopened the wound too much.

Rogan had warned him that the journey would be exhausting to a complete novice, but he'd not imagined quite how exhausting. He could see the advantage of the skis when he managed to stay on them for long enough to cover a good bit of ground, and he learned gradually to avoid the steeper hills and keep to gentle slopes with a long run-out which would enable him to slow down gradually. After a while he worked out a way to turn which was untidy but at least reasonably effective. Now all he had to do was avoid any really painful falls, watch out for hidden dangers and get to the nearby village by nightfall. There, Rogan told him, he might find a guide who could take him to Salen.

Now he was on a road of sorts much of the time for Rogan had given him a map, and he could at least expect not to get lost. Wearily, but with increasing facility, he skied on.

The second bad fall came when he left the road for a short while to take what he hoped would be a short-cut. It nearly ended up as the final cut as he found himself caught at the knees and both his skis were wrenched off. He pitched forward head first into the snow and only Rogan's most severe warning reminded him just at that moment to hang on to his poles.

When he'd regained his breath, he felt around for a firm base but there was none. Appalled, he realised that he was near-upside down, not buried in the snow but tilting downwards...and unable to get up. For a brief moment, as his shoulder sent a burst of searing pain through him, he panicked, but then he told himself to think. His skis had to be somewhere... Warily, he rolled himself round and felt about in the snow. At last he felt one of them and breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed to be caught in something and he realised that was an advantage. Gripping the ski in one hand, he probed with the ski pole for the obstruction. Yes, as he'd hoped, it was some kind of wire, probably a fence. It was undoubtedly what had brought him down and he'd been a fool not to notice the tell-tale signs which he could now see only too well further away. He managed to hook his polestrap over something stable and hauled himself up to the ski. Then he easily found the other; and at least he could lean against the wire, even balance on it. Now, somehow, he had to replace the skis on his feet.

How thankful he was for the skis, once they were beck in place. How well he understood now why the country folk used them in the deep snow, and how they might well save his life out here. He got himself back to the road as quickly as he could.

Needless to say, he did not leave the road again, even when it was steep, and eventually he became used to the lightly fitting skis that wavered slightly whenever he--usually unwillingly--went fast. In time he even began to enjoy the sliding sensation and to look forward to the steeper parts to speed up the journey. When the light was failing, he at last came within easy reach of the village, and as he poled his way along the main street he felt happier than he had for a long time. Ahead of him were still the threats of Andromeda and the Federation, but he could luxuriate in at least partially conquering a new way of travelling, and in the crisp air now cooling fast but, because he was warm from travelling, not in the least unpleasant.

#

Rogan had given him an address to go to, a man that Rogan thought might not be unsympathetic to Federation rebels. "He's not a local man," Rogan said. "He comes from the Capital and many people think he's an offworlder."

"He could be a Federation spy," Blake commented, but Rogan doubted it. "There's nothing to spy on here," Rogan countered. "The Federation controls the planet but not oppressively. People are happy here, they've no cause to rebel."

Blake supposed it was because the planet was so far from Earth. Clearly, people on Epheron were fortunate in many ways.

#

Looking round what he could see of the village, he couldn't spot any effect of the destruction of Star One here, possibly because the place was largely, he assumed, self-sufficient. Perhaps the effects, and worse, the problems of the war, would come later. In darkness now, but guided by the occasional unshuttered window, he plodded to the far end of the little village which was much more a loose string of scattered buildings, a single long street, than a gathering of houses. It seemed a surprising way to the outskirts again, and he was getting tired, the exhilaration passing as the darkness became nearly total. Even the shutters were closing, one after another, until the place was pitch black apart from a faint glow on the snow of starlight drifting into view occasionally behind clouds which he now knew would be bringing more snow. He remembered again the warm enclosure of the Domes and almost longed for their comfort. The snow in sunlight had been charming but now it was treacherous, eerie... As though to warn him, his ski skidded on black ice and he fell heavily on the road, jarring himself. This time, standing up was an effort again and he realised that he could go little further before passing out from exhaustion. Where...in the darkness with not even a lit window to guide him...was that house? He stumbled with weariness and went by mistake off the road down a slope; realised that he was becoming careless, that even a slight slope could throw him and the skis would not hold back, for he was too tired to control them. He managed to keep on his feet this time, but knew he could go no further. All the elation of a short fifteen minutes ago had gone now, and the path turned uphill, making him feel faintly desperate as he had to work even harder to keep going. But there was at least one hopeful point--his new contact's house was, Rogan had said, not far up the hill.

#

Then at last he found it, larger than most and distinguished by a name on the gate which he could feel with his fingers. He dragged himself up the path, struggling along terribly slowly as his legs, burning with tiredness, threatened to give way under him. He placed his finger on the doorcall and held it there, longer than was polite he knew, but he was too far gone to care. Then he leaned against the door-jamb and waited.

The door opened a little. Light, dazzling Blake's eyes, poured out in a narrow beam. Someone was there, face in shadow, peering through the crack. "What is it?" the person said, his voice neutral yet not unwelcoming.

"My name is Blake," the traveller said. "I believe you have been told to expect me."

"Why yes," the other man replied, opening the door wide and looking with some concern at the newcomer. "I can see you've found the journey tiring. Let me help you inside."

Blake accepted the help gratefully. "I need a medic," he said as he came into the light. "I've been injured in the war...and I've fallen on the wound today."

"Don't worry," the other man said. "Rogan has warned me and it's all arranged. I shall take you to the town tomorrow and a specialist will see you but for the moment a friend of mine will attend to it. He's had some medical training."

"Thank you," Blake said. He followed Rogan's friend into a warm, bright room where a real-wood fire crackled merrily in a wide grate. Blake stared at it, fascinated. He felt he had never seen anything quite so delightful before. It was only the effect of his exhaustion, but he treasured that moment nonetheless. Then he saw another man, who rose to his feet and turned to face Blake.

"This," said Hogan's contact, "is our would-be medic. It's not his real profession for he works with computers, but he'll do you for now...."

Their eyes met and locked, an immediate, inexplicable but definable certain moment when their friendship began. This is a man who knows of me and my Cause, Blake thought, assessing and deciding so quickly as he often did and without a shadow of a doubt, no doubt at all. His spirits lifted to the heights, the weariness falling away from him, he held out his hand. Perhaps he would not need Avon...tetchy, maddening, obstructive Avon, nor even Orac. The stranger who was already no stranger took his hand in a firm grip. "Welcome," he said gravely. "I have long wanted to meet you. My name is Deva."

the end


End file.
